


Three Against the Night

by vallhund



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 22:31:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9093664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vallhund/pseuds/vallhund
Summary: In this story, I will give three minor characters the chance to shine.In the North, the recently legitimized Lord Larence Hornwood seeks to capitalize on his House’s loyalty to the newly crowned Jon Snow. In the Stormlands, Lord Arstan Selmy of Harvest Hall must bury his great-uncle Barristan, whose bones have been returned by Daenerys Targaryen.And in the Iron Islands, Lady Barba Stonehouse must fend off her cousins’ claims on her lands, and weigh whether to side with the deadly Euron Greyjoy.





	1. Larence I

He had far too few men. Most of the Hornwood strength had died at the battle a few days past, still a source of grief for Larence. He had buried the boys he had played with growing up, and more than a few of their brothers. _But this will have to do_.

The small contingent of men in Hornwood orange were complemented by fur-wearing wildlings and Manderly knights, many of them barely Larence’s age.

_Does Lord Lamprey really think that he’ll win the King’s favor by sending his squires tagging along at my heels? Well, I shouldn’t be bitter._ The Manderlys had suffered in the War of Five Kings, losing their heir and many men at the Red Wedding. Larence could understand their reluctance to declare for a bastard son of the broken House Stark and his sister. _But I did. I remembered my father taking the oath to Lord Eddard Stark, and Wyman Manderly forgot._

He had never expected this. Larence’s father had sent him to Deepwood Motte as a young boy, trying to avoid angering his wife Donella. He had been raised alongside House Glover’s children, and expected that he would be married to a wolfswood girl and spend his life as a man at arms for his foster brother Gawen.

Then the ironborn had taken Deepwood Motte. Larence had been away at the Stony Shore, fighting against what he now knew to be a feint. Gawen and Erma, along with his foster mother Sybelle, had been taken by Yara Greyjoy, and the castle occupied. He remembered screaming like a demon when Lord Torrhen Flint gave him the news.

Five days later, after receiving directions from Riverrun, the small northern force had snuck into the Fever River in the dead of night and torched fifteen longships. Larence had waded through neck-deep water to set one of them ablaze, cutting the sentry’s throat with his long knife.

And three days after that, a second raven from Robb Stark had legitimized Larence as Lord Hornwood upon the death of his stepmother.

 

“Lord Hornwood?” He still hadn’t gotten used to the title. A rider with the Manderly colors had come up beside him. “The cavalry is ready.” “Good.” Larence was sometimes surprised by the depth of his own voice. He felt as though he had been running nonstop since the beginning of the war several years ago, and sometimes forgot he was no longer a green boy. His arms were an inch wider now, and his chest muscled. _Like Father._ The rider nodded and turned back toward the ranks. Larence threw up his arm. One of his guards winded a large horn, the sound of which echoed off the black stone of Winterfell’s walls. The host began to move. _Let us have this done with._

 

Sansa and Jon Stark had come to Castle Hornwood themselves. The late winter afternoon had been biting cold when a watchman had knocked on the door of Larence’s solar. “Yes?” Irritated, he pushed a sheaf of parchment aside. The castle’s tax records had been water-damaged several years back, and needed reworking. “A party under direwolf banners is at the gate.” A cold pit formed in Larence’s stomach. I might have known. Word had spread that the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch had come back from the dead, and that his sister had somehow slipped away from her husband at Winterfell. My liege lord. Ramsay Bolton had written Larence, like every other lord, warning him to be on the lookout for Sansa Stark. He had burned the letter without hesitating. But even if he knew what he had to do, the prospect was still frightening. “I will receive him in the Hall. Have food brought in.” As the watchman left, Larence had had to grip the desk to keep his hands from shaking.

 

The countryside east of Winterfell was barren. Most of the farms the small army passed on the first day were deserted. _Ironborn, I wager._ People from hereabouts had fled south to White Harbor after Theon Greyjoy had replaced direwolf with kraken. Larence had ridden across this same countryside through the night then, trying to catch a raiding party before it crossed into Hornwood lands. Smalljon Umber had come down from the Last River with what remained of House Umber’s strength, and they had pinned the group of Harlaw men against a small lake, finishing off the entire force. The Umbers had marched west the next day, trying to relieve House Norrey from a plague of longships. _Gods, they were busy._ And then barely a year later, the Umbers had fought and died for the Boltons. Larence had speared an Umber rider in that first mad charge. _Which I never would have had to do if our fool King had an ounce of sense._ He shook his head. _Can’t think like that._ He had bound his fate to Jon Stark now.

 

“We must take Karhold and Last Hearth back first.” The Winterfell solar had been comfortingly warm after the cold of the day. Larence was one of five lords—nobles, rather, Lyanna Mormont is no lord—who stood around the great map of the North that Jon Stark had rolled out over the table. Wyman Manderly seemed ill at ease, his mouth unsettled beneath his walrus mustache. Clay Cerwyn and Robett Glover had their arms crossed. _I see Yohn Royce was too good to join us._

The White Wolf set his finger on the edge of the Grey Cliffs. “They’ll come through here, by sea. I’ve seen them do it at Hardhome. And by the kingsroad as well, more likely than not.”

“Can White Walkers not handle the forest?” Larence’s tone was so sarcastic that Robett looked at him warningly, but Stark didn’t seem to notice.

“They can for sure, but not as easily as a smooth road.”

_This bullshit again._ Larence had to keep himself from laughing every time that the King mentioned the mythical ice demons he had encountered beyond the Wall. _You don’t need to keep it up now, Your Grace. We came together for you. We will fight for you. We don’t need the spectre of an old wives’ tale to force us into the field. You’ve even won over Uncle Robett and Wyman Manderly by casting down the Boltons. So why can you not let go of this?_

“Tormund can take Karhold,” Stark said thoughtfully. “Then, if Houses Glover and Manderly march on Last Hearth…”

Cerwyn shook his head. “We need the mountain clans. The Karhold men will not yield to wildlings, so we must have the Glovers and the wolfswood clans take Last Hearth. Then our forces here can march to the Karwood.”

“That still leaves the Dreadfort,” Robett growled. “They haven’t struck the flayed man yet, and show no sign of doing so in the near future.” _Thank you, Uncle._

“Lord Hornwood can take the Dreadfort,” Stark answered. “It’s a short march, so we can send wildlings with him. That spares the Vale men for the Wall.”

_Baelish will love that idea, I’m sure._ “Thank you, Your Grace.” Larence inclined his head. “I will send a raven to the Hornwood immediately after this meeting, and leave tomorrow.”

 

_And now I’m here._ The procession had stopped for the night. Larence vaulted off his horse as a wildling chieftain— _Tormund, his name is Tormund_ —strode over. This one seems to have more hair than the horse.

“Hornwood? You want us to hunt?”

“Yes.” Larence stretched his arms behind his back. He had almost forgotten how blunt wildlings were. “Rygar! Join our friend here, if you will.” The old Hornwood man at arms nodded his assent, evidently unhappy with the assignment. _I have to do this rather quickly. The wildlings aren’t fond of us either._

 

“Lord Hornwood.”

The Starks were obviously uneasy. Jon Snow, as had been his name then, had his hand on his sword, possibly without noticing it. Sansa Stark’s mouth was drawn into a tight line. Their guards, both wildlings in thick furs, kept looking around at the Deep’s oaken walls.

“Lord and Lady Stark.” Larence settled into his chair at the head of the Deep’s table. He knew Jon Snow was baseborn—I know what that’s like—but hoped to stroke the other man’s ego. Sansa smiled faintly— _she’s trying, I see._

“I remember your father visiting Winterfell, Lord Hornwood. A loyal man.”

“Aye,” Larence murmured. “I suspect you knew my foster father as well. Galbart Glover.”

Her face soured a little. “Indeed. I fear his brother was—less than accommodating to us.”

He tried to keep the dismay from his face. _Uncle Robett rejected them?_ “He is quite a cautious man.”

“I fear he’ll march with Ramsay Bolton.” Jon Snow’s voice was somber. “He seems indebted to them for driving out the ironborn.”

Larence’s hand strayed to his sword. “Yara Greyjoy took his children, you know.”

They clearly hadn’t known. Jon Snow’s mouth tightened, and sadness strayed into Sansa’s eyes. “I am sorry. I know you must have been close.”

“I was raised as their brother.” Larence had to work to keep his voice steady. “I want them back. And I have sworn before the old gods that I will not rest until Yara Greyjoy is dead.”

“Do you mean to pursue her to the Iron Islands?” Jon inquired.

“If I must. Whoever kills the bitch has my thanks, though.” Sansa nodded.

“And in the North? You received our letter.”

“I received two,” Larence answered. “One from Winterfell in Ramsay’s writing. One from the Wall in yours.”

“Have you made your decision?” Worry flooded Snow's voice.

Larence dipped his head. “I burned the one from Winterfell.” He stood and drew his sword. “Might I trouble you to stand?” Relief flooding into their eyes, the two siblings came to their feet. Larence walked quickly around the table, and knelt in front of them, his sword extended. “I pledge my allegiance to House Stark…”


	2. Arstan I

The day had dawned warm and windy, like many on the Dornish Marches. The three-sheaves banner over Harvest Hall’s roof was stiff in the late summer gusts.

_The last we’ll see these five years, I don’t doubt._

Like he did most mornings, Lord Arstan Selmy stood atop the Scythe Tower, the oldest part of the castle. It was dwarfed by the neighboring Sheaves Tower, but he hated to disturb Maester Jonnel, who lived at the top of the Sheaves.

_The view’s better here anyway._

He could see for what seemed to be hundreds of miles west. At this part of the season, the steppe was an endless tapestry of gold, broken only by the distant glimmer of Smith’s Lake at the edge of his vision. The Cockleswhent River rose from the lake, and descended through the rocky hills that marked the end of the Stormlands, eventually watering House Fossoway’s land in the Reach, and spilling into the Mander.

But here, Arstan was master. He turned to look at Harvest Hall. It was one of the last ringforts south of the Neck, with rough wooden walls surrounding the towering central hall that gave the keep its name. _So small._ Especially against what he feared to be coming.

As breakfast was served a few hours later, Arstan beckoned to Hoster Stone, his master at arms. The old Valeman served himself a heaping portion of black bread and venison, and sat beside his lord.

“Any word from your cousin?” Arstan’s voice was normally rich and rolling, but he was as quiet as possible. Harvest Hall was quite remote, and he wanted to keep the news from the north quiet for as long as possible.

“Aye. It was sent from Winterfell.”

_So they succeeded._ Arstan had been shocked to hear that the dead House Stark had reemerged to challenge the Bolton takeover of their lands. More shocked still to hear from Hoster that his cousin Jasper, the lord of House Redfort, was marching north under Petyr Baelish to back them up.

“Many northmen were lost on both sides, he claimed.” Crumbs fell into Hoster’s thick red beard. “But the direwolf has been raised over Winterfell once more. Have you heard from the east?”

“No.” Arstan was frustrated. The last word from Stonehelm, one of the Stormlands’ few major settlements, had been of an approaching fleet from the vicinity of Dorne. He had feared the worst, and sent riders out to the beginning of the Red Mountains, hoping to catch any invaders from House Wyl or the other Dornish mountain lords before they did damage. But they had returned empty handed. Arstan couldn’t call up more than a few dozen extra pikemen and archers in the middle of the last harvest before winter set in, and was consequently spread thin across a vast swathe of the marches.

_If the other marcher lords hadn’t thrown all their strength behind Lord Stannis, perhaps I could keep them closer._ _But my men are the last force of any size west of the rainwood._ Even if he did find riders from the south, Arstan didn’t know what he could do in the event of a Dornish invasion. Send to House Fossoway in the west? Beg for Queen Cersei’s help?

Despite his grim mood, a smile played across the marcher lord’s lips. Might as well send a raven to Winterfell. At least Lord Littlefinger has won a battle recently. The knights of the Vale couldn’t make it in time even if they wanted to, but he doubted that the Fossoways could either; New Barrel was nearly three days’ ride from Smith’s Lake. He shook himself from his reverie. “The harvest will be done in ten days’ time. After that is the Shearers’ Fair. Once those are over, I will muster as many men as—“

A cry of shock came from the courtyard. Arstan’s hand flew to his sword as he stood up, kicking his chair back. A stableboy ran in, his face pale. “Lord Selmy...outside…” Arstan grabbed his sword from the table and sprinted for the door.

Outside, a few dozen of his household servants were milling around. His house guards were climbing the ladders to the walls. Arstan grabbed one of the servants, who he recognized as the baker. “What is it, Jon?” The man was shaking. “In the air…we all saw it…go to the wall, m’lord.”

_What in the Seven Hells_ …Arstan scaled the ladder as fast as he could, jogging toward the short tower over the main gate, where the soldiers had gathered. Coming up to them, he turned to look outward…

…and nearly fainted.

_I’m seeing things._

A black dragon had landed in front of Harvest Hall’s gate, with a rider on its back.

_It must have flown over the courtyard._ Trying not to collapse, Arstan made himself focus on the creature. It was enormous, big enough to swallow a steer, and seemed curious about its surroundings, as its head kept moving about. It had what appeared to be a box clutched in its long talons.

The rider was getting off. Without thinking about it, Arstan descended from the wall, and strode toward the gate. “Open it!” he shouted to the men at the top. Hoster had come up beside him. “My lord…”

“That thing could light the entire hall like dry timber. The gate is no use.” He was out front a few minutes later, his guards behind him now. The rider was a woman, with flowing golden-white hair. _A Targaryen._ He realized that no one else could master a dragon.

“Lord Selmy?” Her voice was tinged by an aristocratic accent markedly different from the rough Marcher brogue he was used to. “That is my name, Lady…you have the advantage of me.” “Daenerys, of the house Targaryen. Queen of the Andals, the First Men and the Rhoynar. Mother of Dragons.”

“There are others?” His voice was unusually faint.

“Indeed.” Daenerys stroked the muzzle of the beast behind her. “This is Drogon, named for my late husband. Rhaegon and Viserion are with my fleet.” “So that was you they spotted from Stonehelm.” “More than spotted,” she laughed. “Stonehelm bent the knee to me.” “Is that why you have come here?” Her face fell a little. “No.” She murmured something in what sounded like old Valyrian to Drogon, who set down the long box he was carrying. A coffin. “I have brought you the remains of the former Lord Commander of my Queensguard, and your kin, Ser Barristan Selmy.”

***

The guards bore Ser Barristan’s coffin into Harvest Hall. Arstan walked behind it at a respectful distance, Daenerys beside him. At his request, the dragon had remained outside, although the butcher would bring it—him—deer later. _Whatever must be done to keep him from burning the Hall down._

As they passed through the courtyard, the servants gathered around. Word had spread, and more than a few of them were weeping. Many remembered House Selmy’s most famous son, and their younger counterparts had certainly heard tales aplenty of the Kingsguard knight. _Myself included._

They stopped in the long dining hall. A wooden stand had been fetched, and the coffin was laid atop it. Arstan stood beside it.

“He will be buried in the Selmy crypt beneath our feet, with his father and brothers. You have my thanks, Your Grace.”

“You recognize me as your queen?”

_Damn._

“I prefer not to offend those with dragons at my gate.”

She laughed again.

“That will take you far, Lord Selmy. Might we sit?”

He offered her the head chair he normally occupied, but she refused, taking a seat at his right arm. Feeling uncomfortable, Arstan sat.

“He was a great man,” she said quietly. “I took the city of Meereen in Essos, and he died in my service, trying to put down a rebellion. Killed nearly ten men.”

“I can believe it.” A servant had brought them food, and Arstan took a swallow of cider.

“It was hard to live up to him, you know. There’s scarcely a lord in Westeros who doesn’t mention him when I introduce myself. Even when I was a boy, the master at arms would always remind me and my cousins of how far we had to go in comparison.”

“I can imagine.” She fell silent briefly.

“You sided with Renly.”

It was clearly not a question, though he did not know how she had found the answer. “You are correct, Your Grace. Bent the knee and hailed him my king. Marched all the way to Storm’s End with him.”

“But you didn’t side with Stannis.”

“He would have been an awful king.” Arstan had never admitted this, but felt free to do so with the man many months dead. “I knew him for many years. Met him at court occasionally, and heard about his turn toward the Red God of Asshai. He burned the sept at Dragonstone, and lost many of us.”

She nodded.

“When Renly died, I marched home. Alone, I might add; most marcher lords took a shine to him.” _And to that damn priestess._ “At the moment, I have the last sizeable army in the Dornish Marches. I fear invasion from the Red Mountains.”

“You need not. They are sworn to me.” His face must have registered his shock, as she laughed gently. “I have the Reach and Dorne at my back, along with the majority of the Iron Fleet and soldiers from Essos. Rest assured that there will be no sudden invasion from the south, Lord Selmy. Unless you intend to fight for Cersei.”

_And here it is._

“I have not declared for any side since Renly’s death.”

“Would you do so for me?”

He felt his hand beginning to shake. “I had not considered—“

“I understand this is sudden.” From another person, it might have come off as insincere, but Daenerys seemed genuinely sympathetic. “Nevertheless, I will need an answer before I leave. My forces are currently preparing to secure Storm’s End, Cape Wrath and the kingswood. I cannot leave a potentially hostile force on my western flank.”

He bristled a little. “As I said, I will not side with Cersei Lannister.”

“Another claimant may arise. It’s happened often enough.” _I really won’t be able to get out of this._ Arstan suspected that Daenerys would not torch Harvest Hall. Nevertheless, he felt trapped. _If the Reach and Dorne have gone over to her, and I appear potentially hostile, the Fossoways, Wyls and Manwoodys—my neighbors—will jump at the chance to “neutralize” me. And seize my land._ He certainly didn’t have the forces to repel all three Houses.

_It seems I have no choice._

He looked up. “I will join you.”

Relief flooded Daenerys’ face. “I had hoped for this.”

She reached over her back and removed the long bundle of cloth. “I brought this for you.” As she began to unwrap it, Arstan’s breath caught in his chest. It was a greatsword, nearly the length of a spear. The guard was gold carved in the shape of two sheaves of wheat, and the handle was bronze. But it was the blade he noticed most; steel with a pattern he had seen just a few times before.

_This is from Valyria._

“It was in the armory at Meereen. I had the handle reworked.” Daenerys extended it to him. “This was intended for your great-uncle.” He accepted the sword. “Does it have a name?” “Sunscythe. I want it to be your house’s ancestral sword.” A gift worthy of a queen. He looked up at the young woman and smiled. "You have my thanks." 

_A pretty gift, indeed. I wonder who she expects me to kill with it._


	3. Barba I

"What is dead may never die."

The last syllables of the words Barba had heard all her life echoed off the kelp-logged rocks as she pushed the coffin into the Sunset Sea's grey waters. One of the men next to her had misjudged the depth of the cove's waters, and almost fell. She grabbed his arm to steady him, and was met with a glare. _This is off to a great start._

As Barba turned back to the shore, she realized for the first time how many people had come to see Quellon Stonehouse laid to rest. There were fishermen from the surrounding villages, her own house guard, miners from the hills, men in the Drumm colors, even what looked to be Goodbrothers from the neighboring Great Wyk. Uncle Quellon had often warned her about the Goodbrothers. _Now we'll see if he was right._

"Aye, what is dead may never die." Her voice was unmistakably female— _can’t do much about that—_ but it reached even the farthest spectators as she waded onto the rocky beach. Beside her stood Cedrik Farwynd, her uncle's ward. Son of one of the strangest houses in the Iron Islands, the boy stood tall and proud nevertheless, his hand on the grip of his long-handled axe. _Hopefully he won't need it._

"But it is not just my uncle who we will not forget. The Stonehouses are as covered in glory as any house serving the Drowned God!"

A roar of applause rose from the crowd.

"Three Kingsmoots chose Stonehouses! The last one, Nute, sailed hundreds of miles, and took Gulltown in the Vale! No ironborn before or since has accomplished that feat!"

More cheers. 

"Uncle Quellon could have held his head beside any of his ancestors, and I was blessed to learn from him. I will rule as he did, as a Stonehouse and an ironborn."

There were murmurs from the Goodbrothers. _You weren't expecting this, were you?_ She took a deep breath. 

"For our House shall never die!"

This was the loudest applause yet. To Barba's relief, even the oldest and hardest fishermen were cheering. _I will need them_. The Goodbrothers looked furious. The guards from House Drumm were silent.  

Urrigon, the captain of her house guard, came up beside Barba as she walked up the shore. He was not yet thirty, but already more capable than his predecessor, who had died several years past. He had a sharkskin sling wrapped about his waist, and a short, ugly spear clenched in his fist. 

"Lady Barba?"

One of the Goodbrothers had approached her. Not Gerold, one of his sons, perhaps. 

"I was sorry to hear of your uncle's passage." They're not normally this obsequious. The man smiled insincerely. "He was known to honor our traditions as few others did."

 _Ah, now I see._ "Thank you. I intend to carry on his way, and that of our house."

"Surely you cannot mean to do so alone, my lady." He reached for her wrist, which she pulled back. "Old Wyk is a harsh place for a lone woman."

A small crowd had gathered about them. 

"I fear I must." Upon seeing how many Goodbrother men were there, Barba had to fight to keep her voice from wavering. "Any husband I take will insist upon ruling my lands himself. I cannot have that."

The Goodbrother man appeared to be on the verge of arguing, until Urrigon stepped forward. 

"Lady Stonehouse is rather tired, Master Goodbrother."

"That time of the month," came a voice from the crowd. 

Urrigon wheeled around. "Brave with the crowd to protect you, I see. Let's see your face."

No one stepped up, but another taunt floated up, in a different voice. "How long you been sticking her?"

Urrigon began to step forward, only for Barba to grip his arm. "It's no use, Urri."

A wolf whistle came from the group. 

"Enough." Donnel Drumm's voice was firm. "Are we women, to stand here and fight with foul words? Stand forth or hold your peace."

The crowd listened to him, and began to disperse. _Half points for that, Drumm._ She noticed the man approaching her. 

"Forgive them, Lady Stonehouse. I fear I provided too much ale."

"It is no matter, Lord Drumm," she replied. "I have been listening to that talk all my life."

He hesitated before speaking. "It is true, though, that you need someone to protect your lands. Is there any way you would consider marriage?"

He wouldn't be bad, she realized. Donnel Drumm’s remarks about women and gossip had angered her, but she was used to that. The Drumms were also Old Wyk inhabitants, and would likely respect the Stonehouses’ traditions and autonomy. Donnel was a younger son, and would let her live in the Stonehouse keep.

_But I cannot throw it all away on a supposition._

She took another deep breath. “I cannot, Lord Drumm. Too much rests on my shoulders, I fear.”

His expression darkened. “So be it.” He turned and walked away, followed by his guards. The crowd had largely dispersed.

 _So that’s how you act when a woman refuses you. Best measure of a man that I know._ She beckoned to Urri and Cedrik.

 

“I don’t know if you can refuse them again.”

Barba poured a draught of ale and slid it down the table to Urri. The guard downed half of it quickly, and kept talking.

“There are Goodbrothers at Shatterstone, and more still on Great Wyk. Without the Drumms--“

“Did you see how he reacted?” Cedric’s hollow voice floated over from the window, where he was looking over the bay. “He wouldn’t be much of a husband.”

Barba smiled a little. “Exactly.”

Urri shook his head. “It makes no matter. We have barely two hundred men of fighting age south of Goat’s Head, and just ten ships with crew. That isn’t enough.”

“I intend to write to the King,” Barba replied. “I’m not particularly fond of Euron Greyjoy”— _nor was my uncle—_ “but he could put a stop to Goodbrother incursions.”

“And take your hand as payment?” Urri snapped. “He has no wife himself, and I’m sure he’d love the ships.”

“If he wants our support, he can have it,” Barba answered. “I will do what I must.”

“Except marry a Drumm.”

“You know what I mean,” she growled. “If I do that, I am trapped in a loveless marriage, and our family name dies out, which is what Uncle Quellon told me could never happen. If I have a child, it will have to be outside wedlock, and then legitimized as a Stonehouse. Which, again, I need Euron’s support to do.”

Urri laughed humorlessly. “I never thought I’d see it come to this. Your uncle knew Euron was mad.”

“Be that as it may, the Kingsmoot chose him and not Yara.” Barba had cursed her bad fortune when Quellon had returned from Pyke shaking his head. Had Balon Greyjoy’s daughter been chosen as queen, she would most likely have supported Barba.  Euron’s triumph had left them on thin ice.

“In any event,” she continued, “I sent a raven before the funeral. We shall see how Euron answers.”

Swearing under his breath, Urri stood up quickly and left, slamming the door behind him.

“He’s worried for you.”

Cedrik took the captain of the guard’s spot, smiling slightly as Barba handed him a tankard of ale.

“He told Lord Quellon he would keep you safe, and he thinks you’re making things much harder than they have to be.”

“My uncle told me to keep my house alive.”

Cedrik nodded. “It’s quite the legacy.”

Not for the first time, Barba felt slightly embarrassed for Cedrik. Born the third son of House Farwynd of the Lonely Light, he had often been mocked by her uncle’s guests. The Farwynds were more than a little unusual, and Cedrik’s father had been infamous in the islands for raving about a great kingdom beyond the edge of the Sunset Sea. Shortly after sending his son to be fostered on Old Wyk, Lord Farwynd had sailed west, vowing to find the Grey King’s palace. He had never returned.  Cedrik’s eldest brother talked to seaweed, and his aunt had washed up drowned on Blackmont after pursuing a sea lion she thought to be her husband, who had died at Seagard in Greyjoy’s Rebellion. Barba had always kept a close eye on Cedrik, fearing that his mind would wander down the same path. Besides keeping a pair of terns in a derelict fisherman’s shack, nothing had cropped up so far. Nevertheless, Barba had gotten into several fistfights with boys who had bullied Cedrik.

 _At least he’s old enough to wield an axe now. Maybe I should be worrying about myself instead._ Barba took a deep gulp of ale. _Drowned God knows I have enough troubles at my doorstep._

 

 


	4. Larence II

They reached the Dreadfort at midmorning of the next day.

_I forgot how large it is._ House Bolton’s ancestral seat was situated on a hill overlooking the Weeping Water. Two square towers loomed over high walls of black stone. Bolton banners hung from the massive oaken gates.

“They’re not giving in easily,” Ser Roban Locke observed somberly. Larence nodded. He trusted the young knight from Ramsgate, who was commanding the force from White Harbor. Roban’s father had been killed at the Red Wedding, and he hated the Boltons nearly as much as the Starks did.

“Then we’ll have to soften them up,” Tormund growled.

_I don’t envy the ones he fights._ Hornwood men who survived the Battle of the Bastards had sworn up and down that the wildling chieftain had torn Jon Umber’s throat out with his teeth.

Larence shook himself out of his thoughts. “Ser Roban, get word to the Dreadfort that we wish to parley. I’ll see to pitching the camp.” _We could be here for weeks._

The party from the Dreadfort was only three strong. At the head rode a stout man dressed in Bolton pink— _the castellan, I presume_ —followed by two guards, each with a flayed man banner. Larence almost laughed as he spurred his garron forward, followed by Tormund, Ser Roban and six riders. _They think to resist us with this?_

The two parties met just a few hundred feet from the Dreadfort’s gates. The stout castellan inclined his head. “Lord Snow.”

Larence’s fist tightened around his reins, and he heard Rygar hiss with anger behind him. _So that’s how you plan to provoke me, by reminding me that I was born on the wrong side of the bed. Sadly, I’m used to it._ “Lord Skinner.”

There was a pause, then Tormund got the joke. His belly laugh seemed to echo off the Dreadfort’s walls. Ser Roban chuckled as well, and the guards nearly doubled up. The stout man’s lips tightened. _Two can play at that game._

“I did not come here to bandy witticisms.”

“Witticism,” Larence answered slowly. “That’s a big word.” His eyes traveled up the side of the man’s head. “Almost as big as your ears.”

The man flushed as the Hornwood party howled with laughter. “Are you here to parley or insult me?”

“Neither.” The mirth was gone from Larence’s voice. “I came to give you the chance to surrender.”

The man shook his head. “I was ordered to hold the castle until Lord Roose returned.”

“Lord Roose is rotting in a ditch at the side of the kingsroad,” Larence stated flatly. “I saw them dig him up myself. His son is dogmeat. Every Bolton banner outside that stinking heap of blood-soaked stones you call a castle has been burned, trampled on or used to clean the blood of Bolton men off Winterfell’s flagstones. My uncle Robett and Lord Torrhen Flint have secured Moat Cailin, and Lord Manderly’s fleet is patrolling the Narrow Sea. The Lannisters will not come for you. The Dustins and Ryswells are broken. The surviving Umbers have bent the knee, and Karhold is besieged. Your Lord Ramsey murdered a Frey, so they would not come for you if they could. The only men coming for you, Lord Skinner, ride under the direwolf.”

The man shifted uncomfortably.

“I’ll give you one day to decide. Any captives you hold are to be given to me. You and your men will be guaranteed safe passage to White Harbor, and can sail wherever you choose. I swear on my honor as Lord Hornwood that no harm will come to you if you yield. _Now.”_

“We shall see, Lord Hornwood.” The man turned his horse back toward the gates. “We shall see.”

Four hours later, as Larence and Ser Roban walked to the edge of the camp to look at the Dreadfort’s walls, the castellan struck the Bolton banners and opened the gates.

 

The castle was incredibly run down. Larence walked on foot through the Dreadfort’s courtyard,  trying not to trip on the rusted weapons scattered across the ground. The Bolton men at arms had cast them down before making their way out the gates, bound for the docks of White Harbor.

“What a shitstack,” Tormund growled.

“Aye,” Ser Roban agreed. “Even the Wolf’s Den is better than this.”

The Bolton servants had assembled outside the scullery. _I hate to send them all back to their villages, but this place cannot be left standing._ Larence intended to pull the Dreadfort down, and use the stones to raise one guard tower and a small market town overlooking the Weeping Water. He would happily give some of the houses to the servants who renounced the Boltons, but that would be at least a year away.

“What will you be wanting of us, m’lord?” The speaker was an elderly woman. _I would bet a silver stag that she’s a cook._

“You may go home,” he answered. Most of them slumped a little with relief. _They may have lost their jobs, but I expect they thought much worse would befall them._ “Before you do, though, I need to know what happened to the people who were brought here from Winterfell.”

“There weren’t many,” answered an old man who had the look of a blacksmith. “Most went home. Lord Ramsay had use of a few of them. A couple are still here.”

_I can imagine the use he got,_ Larence shuddered.

A scuffle broke out in the crowd. The old cook had seized hold of one of the serving girls, who looked to be barely ten.

“She was from Winterfell, my lord—argh!”

The girl had hit her. The blacksmith— _I think they’re married, come to think of it—_ helped the cook, and they pushed the girl forward. She had short, dirty brown hair, and looked down at the ground.

Larence knelt to look her in the eye. “You served the Starks? What is your name?”

She tried to look away, but he put his hand gently under her chin, forcing her to look him in the eye. Her gaze strayed to his tunic.

“You were at the feast.” Her voice was unusually soft.

“Which one?”

She closed her eyes. “I don’t want to go back. They’re all dead.”

“No one will make you go anywhere,” he answered. “Which feast?” _I can’t image what she’s seen here._

“When Lord Stark’s son was born.”

“Rickon?” _She isn’t old enough to remember any others, but I didn’t attend that one._

She nodded. “Your hair was shorter. And grey.”

He felt a lump rising in his throat. _Father. She saw my father, and now I look so much like him that she can’t tell._ “That was my father, little one. Halys Hornwood.”  
“My father died,” she murmured. “I saw the iron men take his head off.” Tears came to her eyes.

_A Winterfell man who was beheaded by the ironborn._ Larence closed his eyes in thought. He could just remember hearing something about this from the Boltons, how Theon Greyjoy had killed—someone….. _who was it?_

And then he remembered a man with long white hair, who had come to Deepwood to ask for men to relieve Torrhen’s Square.

“Rodrik Cassel.” His voice was clear. “You’re Beth Cassel.”

She began to cry, her head in her hands. Larence picked her up. _She’s much too light._ “It’s all right. You can go home now.”

“Please, no,” she sobbed into his shoulder. “I don’t want to go back.”

_Too many memories, I suppose._ “All right. I can send you back to Castle Hornwood. My home.”

She nodded gratefully. Larence turned to Ser Roban. “Do you have a rider who can take her?”

The older man nodded. “Yes. I’ll fetch someone.”

 

An hour later, after sending Beth north with a squire from White Harbor and supervising the unhinging and burning of the Dreadfort’s pine-tarred gate, Larence received a raven from Winterfell.

He unfurled the tiny scroll in the courtyard, as Rygar held the unruly bird, which seemed unhappy with the thick black smoke pouring up from the gate. _Can’t blame it; that thing stinks no end._ Once he was done reading, he tore the scroll into small shreds. “I am to return to Winterfell.”

“Already?” Rygar’s grimace, the result of the bird biting his ear and the pungent smell emitting from the gate’s embers, grew even worse.

“They have something else they wish me to undertake.” Larence tossed the scroll’s remains into the fire. “The White Harbor men and wildlings have to come with me. I need you to make sure that the Bolton lands are pacified and integrated into my own. The Hornwood men will stay with you.”

Rygar nodded seriously, an effect undermined by the flapping raven. “I will do what I can.”

“Excellent.” Larence strode toward the camp outside the Dreadfort’s walls. He hated to turn the men around so quickly, but suspected that Jon Stark was not a patient man at the moment. _As long as he doesn’t send me chasing after ghosts at the end of the earth._


	5. Arstan II

_So many memories._

The last time Arstan had been to Storm’s End, it had been under Renly Baratheon’s banners, when Stannis had laid siege to their family’s seat. He had left the morning Renly had turned up dead.

Things had changed. Two of Stannis’ flaming-stag banners hung over the ancient gates, and another flew from the top. The winds off Shipbreaker Bay were also much stronger and colder, reflecting the changing seasons.

Below the walls was gathered the largest army Arstan had ever seen.

Just like when he had been there at the beginning of the war, the Tyrell rose and other Reach banners flew high and proud over what seemed to be an ocean of tents. But they had now been joined by the Greyjoy kraken, the Martell sun, and banners that Arstan had been taught to fear: the Wyl snake, the Manwoody skull, the Blackmont vulture. _All my House’s enemies gathered in one place._ He did his best to keep his heart from racing. _They will not turn on me with dragons around._

For above them all flew the red Targaryen dragon.

 

His men pitched their tents on the edge of the encampment, as close to the Fossoways as possible. Arstan had brought nearly four hundred infantry and a hundred knights with him from the Marches. His remaining forces would do their best to keep the peace on the high steppes.

As Hoster Stone saw to the men, Arstan dismounted and walked toward the center of the camp. He passed several contingents of Tyrell footsoldiers, many men in a strange uniform he didn’t recognize— _those might be the Essosi that the Queen told me about—_ and even a few stony Dornishmen from the Red Mountains. He had to fight to keep his hand from straying to Sunscythe’s grip.

The Queen’s tent was in the middle of the camp, at the edge of a massive open space. _For the dragons, perhaps._ They were not there, but Arstan sensed they would not be far.

Two Essosi guards stepped in front of the entrance as he approached. “You are?” The speaker had a thick Ghiscari accent.

“Lord Arstan Selmy of Harvest Hall. Her Grace is expecting me.”

“Indeed she is.”

This came from the man who had stepped to the opening. He had a thick, curly golden-brown beard, a golden tunic, and a small brooch at his neck, in the shape of an extended hand. Most notably, he barely came up to Arstan’s waist.

 _Well, I know who this is._ “Lord Hand.”

Tyrion Lannister smiled. “Come in.”

 

A small group of lords had gathered around an enormous map.

Daenerys Targaryen was in the center, her small hand tapping what Arstan assumed to be the Stormlands. Beside her stood a tall, rangy man with long black hair and elaborate black armor. Other faces he recognized: Joramun Fossoway, Garth Hightower, Edric Beesbury. The Dornish lords across the table looked up when Tyrion announced him, their eyes narrowing. He recognized Gerold Wyl. _Stay clear of me if you value your fingers, snake._

Arstan ended up standing between Joramun and a lord he did not know, a thin, pale man with short reddish hair and close-set, dark eyes.

“If we can breach the gates, it should be straightforward.” Randyll Tarly’s voice was harsh.

“Good,” the queen said quietly. _It appears the meeting is over anyway._ “Then we shall proceed in the morning. Lord Wyl, have your riders found any Lannister forces nearby?”

“A few by the southern fringes of the kingswood.” Wyl had only a faint accent. “We dispensed with them. It seems Cersei has abandoned the stormlands, as Stannis did before her.”

_You just love the idea of that, don’t you?_

“We shall continue north after tomorrow,” Tyrion interjected. “The main thrust of the Reach’s forces are almost to the edge of the riverlands, and the Iron Fleet has secured Driftmark’s allegiance.”

“Already?” Arstan interjected.

“They remained very fond of my House, Lord Selmy,” the queen explained. “We have had similarly good luck with the men of Crackclaw Point, which will prove helpful for securing Duskendale.”

“And any other areas with questionable loyalty,” Gerold Wyl muttered.

Tyrion shot him a warning look.  

“I believe we are done here,” Daenerys announced. “My lords, you may return to your tents, see to your men, and do whatever else is needed.”

The meeting dispersed. Arstan tried to make his way to the queen, but she was enveloped by a slew of knights and lords.

“You took your time, I see.”

Gerold Wyl smiled faintly as he came up to Arstan. Dickon Manwoody and a Blackmont knight Arstan did not recognize were behind him.

“I had to ensure that my men had been set out along the edge of our lands,” Arstan answered casually. “We’ve had quite the problem with raiders.”

“Especially since your king left you all on your own.”

“I was not sworn to Stannis,” Arstan answered. “I prefer not to make oaths I do not intended to keep, or bend the knee to liege lords I would not avenge.”

Wyl’s mouth tightened. “I had nothing to do with Prince Doran’s death, or that of Prince Trystane. I mourned them both.”

“Perhaps it was a blessing,” Arstan answered. “Had Trystane lived, he would have grown up to be a Martell.”

In the second it took Wyl to pull his fist back, Arstan had stepped out of his reach.

“Afraid, Marcher?” Dickon Manwoody’s hand had gone to his sword.

Arstan reached for Sunscythe, only to freeze as something tightened about his neck.

“What have we here?” The voice was female, and shot through with a much thicker Rhoynish accent than Wyl or Manwoody.

Arstan stayed perfectly still. “Arstan, my lady, of House Selmy.”

The pressure vanished— _leather, that was leather—_ and the speaker circled around to stand in front of him. She had long black hair, leather plate armor and a bullwhip clenched in her right hand.

“Nymeria Sand, of…”

“I know who you are.” Arstan sensed that he wouldn’t be able to use his greatsword in time, but began to reach for the long, heavy saxe knife at his hip. “A kinslayer and a bastard.”

Her lip curled. “My uncle and cousin were weak, marcher.”

“Not as weak as your loyalty.”

“Enough.”

Tyrion Lannister had come up beside them, accompanied by the red-haired lord Arstan had stood next to earlier. “If you cannot get along for a few moments, leave.”

“You do not have to march together, or even fight together.” Tyrion’s companion had a weak, hollow voice, but the Dornishmen turned to listen to him. “We don’t want you to give up all your old rivalries, just put them on hold until the Lannisters are—oh, forgive me, my lord.”

Tyrion laughed quietly. “You’re hardly the first to make that mistake. Ser Dickon, I have a few questions, if you don’t mind…”

He led the Dornishmen aside, leaving the red-haired lord with Arstan.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” the marcher lord admitted. _I have no idea who this is. He doesn’t sound like a Reach man, but he’s obviously not Dornish either._

“We’re at opposite ends of the realm,” the other answered. “I am Jason, of House Banefort.”

“The Hooded Man.” Arstan remembered far too few sigils, but the Banefort emblem was hard to forget. “You’re from the westerlands.”

Banefort nodded, obviously pleased with the recognition. “I am here with Lord Tyrion. I would have followed Lord Tywin, but his elder children are unfit to rule.”

“Are your lands not at risk?” Arstan inquired.

A shadow passed over Banefort’s face. “Possibly. The hills to the south of the Banefort are high enough, though, and I left half my strength there. I will be leaving here in a few days with the rest. Once Her Grace has captured King’s Landing, the riverlands and the west are next. I have been tasked with recapturing Riverrun and the Red Fork from House Frey.”

“Don’t turn your back,” Arstan quipped. He knew little of the riverlands, but Hoster Stone had often told him of the Freys’ noxious reputation in the Vale. And even Harvest Hall had heard of the Red Wedding. _Wait, speaking of the Red Wedding…._

“Has no one told you of the North?”

Banefort nodded quietly. “I have heard about the White Wolf, as has Her Grace. I am hoping the Freys will give him enough trouble by Seagard and the Twins to slow the northmen down, so that I can take the western edge of the riverlands. The full royal army will be enough to stop even the combined forces of the Vale and the North.”

Arstan’s mouth tightened a little. “Indeed. I do not envy you, though.”

“It should not be difficult work,” Jason replied. “You are worried about the North?”

 _Good job avoiding calling me afraid._ “No, but I cannot fight the Vale. My late wife was a Redfort, and my goodfather may very well be marching with Jon Stark.”

Jason nodded. “Hopefully, it will not come to that. You’re a widower also?”

Arstan felt a lump in his throat. _Thought I was over that._ “Consumption, five years back. Took her, our unborn child and our son Steffon.”

Sorrow flashed across Jason’s face. “That’s…terrible.”

“Aye. And you?”

Anger now crossed into the westerman’s eyes. “War. She was carried off by a Northern raiding party when the Young Wolf ran rampant in the westerlands. I was with Lord Tywin at Harranhal. She hung herself after they had finished with her.”

_It sounds as if you’d rather like a chance at Jon Stark, Lord Banefort._

Jason shook himself out of his anger. “Anyway. If you do not wish to be close to your friends from Dorne, the queen may send you with me. The Freys are a formidable house, but I think our forces together would match them.”

Arstan nodded, relieved at the suggestion. “That seems sensible.” _If he is so consumed by hatred of the North, it might be better if there is a cooler head with Lord Banefort. I can negotiate with the Redforts if they are there. And the Royces probably remember me as well._

_Of course, he might just drag me down with him._


	6. Larence III

It was close to noon when Larence spotted the smoke rising from Winterfell’s chimneys. _Many more than when I left._ He remembered Wyman Manderly offering to send for smiths and stonemasons from White Harbor to repair the fire-damaged parts of the castle that the Boltons had not seen to.

The winter town was also far busier than before. When Larence had ridden through here after the Battle of the Bastards, most of the houses had been abandoned. Now the streets were crowded with northerners in thick furs. He tilted his head to one side upon seeing a pair in thick green cloaks pass by. _They look like they’re from the wolfswood._

The Winterfell courtyard was much the same. The smithy fires were banked so high that Larence could feel their heat from the gate. Carpenters and masons were hauling building materials back and forth, and he could hear nails being driven into tough old wooden beams. Young boys on the cusp of manhood were practicing with long-handled axes, led by a man in black leather, who Larence recognized.

“Ned!”

Noseless Ned Woods grinned, leaving his charges to wrap Larence in a bear hug. “Been too long, Larry. How are ye?”

“Passable. Yourself?”

Ned grimaced. “Well enough. The wood’s nearabouts short on game by now. I brought most of the Woods and Bole boys here with me.”

A candle lit in Larence’s head. _That’s why the winter town is crowded._ The wolfswood and mountain clans traditionally suffered in the winter, and sent many of their children to the winter town, where they would be fed. “Are the mountain clans here as well?”

“Aye.”

 _Good._ “How many men do we have?”

“From the North, nearly four thousand.” His surprise must have shown, as Ned laughed. “Aye, the King wasn’t expecting that many either. Both the Flints, the Cerwyns, us from the wood, the Manderlys and Lockes, the Tallharts, even what’s left of the Karstarks and Umbers.”

 _Can’t be many of those._ Jon Umber had brothers, and Harald Karstark cousins, but the Umbers and Karstarks had been cut down by the Vale. Indeed, the power structure in the North had changed for good. Since receiving the Bolton lands, Larence had become Jon Stark’s second most powerful bannerman, after Wyman Manderly. The Mazins, who had received the lands of Houses Dustin and Ryswell, were close behind.

_And the Vale sent barely a third of its strength north, so that’s even more._

“My lord?” The young Manderly knight who had accompanied him seemed anxious. “The King will be waiting.

Larence shook himself out of his thoughts. “Yes, of course. We’ll speak again soon, Ned.”

 

Jon Stark was seated in his solar. Unlike the last time Larence had been there, the room was nearly full. The lords from the Vale were there in full force, along with Robett Glover, Clay Cerwyn, Wyman Manderly, several dark-haired wolfswood chieftains, Lady Lyessa Flint from Widow’s Watch, a gaunt, grey-haired man that Larence vaguely recognized, and a thin boy just a few years younger than Larence himself, with a hooked nose and fierce grey eyes. Sansa Stark was speaking quietly with a plump young woman whom Larence remembered as Eddara Tallhart of Torrhen’s Square.

_All these Houses, and to think mine has risen above most of them._

“Welcome back, Lord Hornwood.” Davos Seaworth turned from the massive map spread across the central table to greet Larence. “I trust it went well?”

Larence smiled; he liked the crownlands lord, and trusted him a little more than he did the king. “Aye. They threw down their arms when I offered them passage to the Stormwhite.”

“Excellent.” The King’s voice was firm. _I forget that he’s used to commanding men._ “We have much to discuss.”

Davos escorted Larence to the table. To his surprise, the map was of the entirety of Westeros, instead of the North alone. As he turned to ask the other man, his eye caught a series of markers scattered across the stormlands. “Lord Seaworth, what are the Tyrells doing in the—“ His voice died away as another marker caught his eye. A small stone dragon stood astride Storm’s End. _No. How?_

“Queen Cersei has not gone unchallenged,” the gaunt man growled. “The Targaryens have returned, with an army from Essos. Unsullied from the Bay of Sorrows. Dothraki screamers. The full strength of Dorne and the Reach. And three dragons.”

Larence laughed faintly. “Surely not. There aren’t—there couldn’t be…” His voice died away as he saw several of the Vale lords nodding.

“My master at arms saw one flying over the Trident,” Yohn Royce said quietly. “We have reports from the riverlands of similar sightings.”

 “In any event, the Lannisters are—occupied.” Clay Cerwyn tapped a series of lion’s-head markers along the Blackwater Rush. “The armies that were used to take Riverrun and patrol the Red Fork have been sent east under Ser Jaime Lannister. The Freys have also been weakened. Walder Frey was found in the great hall of the Crossing with his throat opened. His heir Ryman is dead as well. “

Larence felt a little weak at the knees. _I leave for a few days, and all this happens?_ “Who did it?”

“Not sure,” Lord Davos answered. “We think it was a loyalist of ours in the riverlands, but have no way of knowing. There are tales of a servant girl who vanished immediately afterward. The Freys are fighting amongst themselves over the succession. A bloody fight.”

“This is our chance.” The king stood. “We must march north, but we can divide our forces now. Lord Hornwood, you are to lead the southern attack.”

He moved a moose-head marker southward, along with a crossed set of axes, a pine tree and a bucket.

“You will sail from Flint’s Finger, with your own men, the Cerwyns, the Tallharts and the Wulls. The Freys have a small garrison at Seagard, and are holding Lord Jason Mallister and his son Patrek hostage. However, a number of them have returned to the Twins to contest Lord Walder’s seat. If you attack at night, you should be able to sneak into the Booming Tower and free the Mallisters. Once they are out of Frey hands, the city and the Mallister forces should come over to us easily. Ser Wendel Manderly and Lord Robett Glover will take the Crossing.”

He placed an eagle on Seagard and a merman and mailed fist on the Twins.

 “Once you have finished there, the two forces will march for Riverrun. I have received ravens from Raventree Hall, Wayfarer’s Rest, Pinkmaiden and Stoney Sept. There should be a riverlands army there to meet you. Try not to get caught in the Targaryen-Lannister war, but take what you can. I hope to seize as much of the riverlands as possible before either side can do anything about it.”

“What of yourself, Your Grace?”

“I will lead the majority of our forces northward,” the king answered. “The Wall is far too weak, and I swore that I would reinforce the Watch.”

“Ah,” Larence said quietly. “I know you will be of great help to Castle Black, Your Grace.” His tone was so sarcastic that a few of the other lords turned to look at him, but the king seemed not to notice.

“Excellent.” At a nod from Lady Sansa, Ser Davos began to roll up the map. “In that case, I believe we are finished here.”

 

Robett caught up to Larence in the courtyard.

“He didn’t even want to bother with the south,” the Glover lord confided. “It was the Red Wolf, Lady Stark, that persuaded him to try and reclaim the lot of it.”

“The riverlands are part of his brother’s kingdom, Uncle.”

Robett shook his head in disgust. “The riverlands are a deathtrap, Larence. There are barely any hills. The Trident and its forks aren’t deep enough to block armies from fording them. Aside from the hills in the west, there’s no defensible point outside a castle’s walls. I’ve been in two wars down there. I remember.”

 _I always forget he was in Robert’s Rebellion._ “It’s my king’s orders. I’ll have the Mallisters, Uncle.”

“Small good the Mallisters or the other riverlords did Robb Stark,” Robett growled. “The Lannisters have the high ground, and they killed near half of the riverlands’ soldiers before we even got there last time. Not to mention these dragons.”

Larence laughed a little. “I can believe that the Targaryens are in the south again. Even that they have the Reach and Dorne with them. But dragons?”

“I don’t think the Valeman Bronze Yohn spoke of was wrong,” Robett muttered. “Lord Royce knew Sam Stone from the day he was born, and he swore up and down that he would trust the man with his life.”

He kicked a lump of ice with his boot.

“Speaking of madness, I’d advise that if you disagree with Stark, you may wish to keep it to yourself.”

“It’s ridiculous.” Larence spoke low and harsh now. “It was a ploy to get us to support him. The battle is over. He’s the King in the fucking North as much as his brother ever was, and can probably take the riverlands back, with you, Clay, me, Lord Manderly, the wildlings and the Valemen. So why does he persist with this?”

“I don’t know,” Robett replied. “I’ve spent a fair number of hours thinking about that these past few days. And Larence, I’m not so sure anymore. Not since I heard there are living dragons.”

“Fair enough. I will be careful, Uncle.” Larence turned to go.

“Is Lyarra still at Flint’s Finger?”

Larence stopped. “Aye. I mean to speak to Lord Flint about that.”

“She’s a bastard, boy. You could do better now.”

“I made my decision some time ago,” Larence answered.

“Fair enough. Just give my words some thought.”

“I always have.” The younger lord smiled as he strode toward the gates, his mind full of plans for the march to the Finger.


	7. Barba II

The Sunset Sea was as rough as Barba had ever seen it. The day of Uncle Quellon’s funeral had been calm, but the surf was now nearly twenty feet.

She fastened the clasps of her cloak as she looked out the window of her chamber at the top of the Stonehouse. At the small rock jetty below, Urri was supervising a crew in loading a longship. _I hope it does not become my tomb._

Lifting her head, she saw whitecaps stretching nearly to the horizon. In the distance, a small cluster of dark ships had gathered near the Blind Beggar’s Rock, a razor-sharp shoal far to the east of Old Wyk. _That will be the king._

Euron Greyjoy had replied to her letter quickly, requesting that she meet with him. He was currently sailing north to collect men from Blackmont and the periphery of the Iron Islands, but was willing to stop briefly off Old Wyk. _He isn’t meeting with the Goodbrothers. That must count for something._

A shout came from below. The longship was ready. _Urri must have seen me near the window._ Turning to go, Barba stopped to look out the other window. The sea was equally rough, but the horizon here was an unbroken black line. _Great Wyk._ Her home was almost entirely surrounded by the larger island, which bent around Old Wyk in a crescent shape. As she began to walk, she thought of the history Uncle Quellon had taught her: while Old Wyk had been the first island the ironborn had settled, Great Wyk had nearly three times the men. _Divided, to be sure, but mostly among the different branches of House Goodbrother._ The Goodbrothers were nowhere nearly as powerful as the Harlaws, who controlled the entirety of the richest island, or the Greyjoys themselves. But they dwarfed the Stonehouses many times over.

The wind was brutal. Cedrik, who had met her at the door, offered her his cloak, but she refused. _Better to let my king see I’m not afraid of a little gust._ As she strode to the longship, gulls soared overhead, seemingly driven more by the wind. Despite the weather, Urri was grinning when she met him.

“Lovely day for a sail!” He had to scream to make himself heard.

“Get on with it!” she laughed, stepping over the gunwale. Barba had chosen to wear salt-stained leather for the voyage. _I am not a little girl or a mother in skirts. I hope he respects strength._

As they cast off and began to sail into the Sunset, she looked back one last time at Old Wyk. Behind the Stonehouse, the black cliffs were topped with white birch trees, bent from the sea wind.

_Home._ She had played in those woods with Cedrik, ridden through them on Urri’s donkeys, seen Great Wyk from the tops of the hills further inland, while Quellon taught her the two islands’ bloody history. _I will come back. No matter what Euron Greyjoy thinks._

 

The voyage took nearly an hour. The _Stone Shark_ had been built before Uncle Quellon had been born, and took on an unnerving amount of water. Barba spent the time staring back at Great Wyk in the distance. _I have twenty longships, and_ Seaspark _if the shipwrights ever finish with her. The Goodbrothers might have close to sixty longships and fifteen dromonds._

As they drew closer, the Greyjoy kraken stood out clearly on Euron’s banners. There were four ships, even the smallest towering over _Stone Shark._ They were heavily manned; Barba noticed Cedrik’s hand tightening about the grip of his axe as ironborn moved around the decks. _Easy._

The crew on the _Silence_ dropped a ladder as _Stone Shark_ pulled up alongside. Ignoring Urri’s pleas, Barba was the first up, struggling to keep a grip on the soaked rigging. _They’ve had worse weather than we did._

Euron Greyjoy waited for her at the top.

He was not a handsome man, but not ugly either: a thick face, with a short brown beard, a red scar over his left cheekbone and intense eyes, pale and blue as winter ice.

“Lady Stonehouse.” He had a rough Pyke accent, apparently undiminished by years away from the Iron Islands.

“Your Grace.” She bent her head. Behind her, she could hear Urri and Cedrik climbing onto the deck, followed by a handful of her guards. _I am not alone, and I am not afraid._

“Sorry about your uncle.” He was surprisingly honest, even for a reaver. “I caught up with ‘im at the kingsmoot. Seemed decent enough.”

_He must have concealed his real feelings well if you thought he liked you._ “He had a full life. I won’t pretend it was easy at the end, but he will be remembered well by his men.”

“And the Dornish, if I recall.”

She nodded, surprised that Greyjoy remembered her uncle’s most infamous voyage; during Robert’s Rebellion, at the age of fifty, he had raided up the Greenblood, the first ironborn to do so in living memory. “Indeed.”

“You wrote to me about the Goodbrothers.”

“Aye.”

He smiled a little. “I need them, Lady Stonehouse. I’m soon to sail for the green lands, once we have enough ships.”

“That is true, Your Grace. But if they overrun my land, kill my men, plant a little Goodbrother in my belly and raise the horn over the Stonehouse, they might start thinking they don’t need you. A rebellion on Great Wyk would be a lot of time to put down.”

“The Goodbrothers hailed me king not a moon’s turn past.”

“That won’t stop them, Your Grace. They’ve had eyes on Stonehouse land since my uncle was a boy. One of them offered to bend the knee to Robert Baratheon in return for our land when your brother first rose up.”

Euron’s thick eyebrows rose. “I had not heard that.”

The man in question had been a second son of the Goodbrothers of Downdelving, and had been promptly executed by Ser Barristan Selmy, but Barba saw no need to tell the Iron King. “They would sell their own mothers into thralldom for a bigger foothold on Old Wyk.”

“They do seem grasping. But what can you offer me?”

“Twenty longships. Four hundred men. A carrack known as _Seaspark,_ which will have three scorpions and a trebuchet on deck once completed.”

“How soon will it be ready?”

“Another moon’s turn if we can get tar. There have been shortages.”

Euron nodded slowly. “Very well. Listen well, Lady Stonehouse. We’re short of ships. My niece took the best. We’re building as quickly as possible, but it won’t be enough.”

He stretched his arms, then resumed speaking.

“This is as good a time for the Old Way as any. I’m sending men from Blackmont to steal ships out of the westerlands harbors. But there’s one much closer. Seagard.”

She nodded.

“The Mallisters’ve been building for some time, ever since the war started. There’s four dromonds and four times as many longships in their harbor. I want you to steal them. If you go at night, they shouldn’t see you.”

Barba’s hands almost clenched, but she forced herself to focus. _I cannot look afraid._ “And bring them back to Old Wyk?”

“Aye. If you do that, you’ll have no trouble with the Goodbrothers.”

_This is a suicide mission._ No matter what Euron said, Seagard was one of the strongest points on the Sunset Sea’s coast. Her uncle had always insisted that Balon Greyjoy should have sent his entire fleet against the Mallister stronghold. _Nearly a hundred ships went below the waves that day, and Euron would have me steal their entire fleet with just twenty._

But that had been before the War of the Five Kings. The Mallisters had been much stronger  eleven years ago.

She looked Euron straight in the eye. “Agreed.”

 

Urri didn’t speak until _Stone Shark_ was almost back to the docks. “I told you not to write to him.” His voice was taut with anger.

“Urri—“

“How in the name of the Storm God do you expect to steal the entire Mallister fleet?” the captain of her guard snarled. “You might as well ask me to burn Lannisport down with a piss-soaked torch!”

“What other choice did I have?” Barba turned away from the rail, where she had been looking at Great Wyk again. “I wrote to my uncle on Orkmont. He ignored me. Uncle Quellon wrote to his great-uncle Wynch. Nothing came of it. No one else would have come if the Goodbrothers landed.”

“You could have written to Cedrik’s family. He’s been your ward for half his life.”

“The Farwynds might be able to call three hundred men if every rock in the Outer Isles sent every boy over fifteen.” Barba had thought of writing to the Lonely Light, but dismissed the idea out of hand. “They would die in droves against the Goodbrothers.”

“They have cousins on Great Wyk. Triston Farwynd was a friend of your father.”

“You think I haven’t thought of this?” she snapped. “I wrote to Triston Farwynd, and got nothing!”

“Very well.” Urri’s shoulders slumped. “In that case—and since Euron now expects us to go—I will sail tomorrow in midmorning. As I recall, the fleet should reach the Cape of Eagles at sundown of the second day, and Seagard at moonset, about two hours into the third. That’s as dark as it will get.”

“I’m coming with—“

“No,” he said flatly, and Barba could tell Urri would not relent. “You’re a passable shot with a sling, you sail well, but you’ve no training with axe or sword or bow. You’ll get a number of the men killed guarding you.”

_I’ve heard that before._ “So be it.” They had passed into Stonehouse Sound, and the wind began to die down close to shore. “I will go to the hamlets as soon as we get in, pull together the men.”

“Aye.” He had begun to sharpen his spearhead with a small whetstone. Looking past Urri, Barba could see Cedrik sitting on the gunwale, doing the same with his axe. _His uncle died at Seagard, and he’s never fought in a battle before._

_I pray this won’t be his last._


End file.
